The Pale Banner
The loom is a beast of iron and oak, and it is hungry. It sits in the corner of the mill, silent now, waiting for a hand that has the strength to feed it. You stand before it, Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, your fingers stained with the grey dust of years. The bank note is pinned to the wall, the red ink bleeding slightly into the damp plaster. Three days. That is all the time you have to...
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